


making me sweat

by honey_beeing



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Character, Awkward situations, Demisexual Character, Embarrassment, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Lots of it, M/M, Orgy, Sexual Content, Titanic References, Weird Fluff, Weird Plot Shit, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_beeing/pseuds/honey_beeing
Summary: A not-exactly University AU where Harry and Louis meet at an orgy where the both of them don't intend to have sex at.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	making me sweat

When Louis finds the perfect clean spot against a wall to sit down, there's a mass of bodies right across, the image of it hitting him square in the eyes. A man and a woman seem to be head-butting while trying to eat another woman out- whose face Louis cannot see since it's covered by the arse of a man who's sitting atop it. By the look on the man's face, he seems to be really enjoying grinding down against her mouth.

For the millionth time, Louis asks himself what he's doing on a Saturday night, instead of drinking himself into Sunday or spending his leisure time on an adult colouring book. 

He tries to think of mandalas but all that flash in his head, are the sea of bodies that he had to cross to find a place to sit. 

One thing is clear; never listen to Liam again. Or Liam's almost-datemate, Avery. That and pray he never sees Liam's dick or mouth or hands in association with another body, or without any association at all. 

It was probably more on Louis than it was on anyone else, honestly. He lets himself be lead anywhere and can never say no when it comes to someone close to him. Not that he would ever admit that to Liam. Sodding Liam who brought him to a sodding orgy even when he knows Louis won't have sex with people he doesn't know. Maybe it had been a little of his curiosity as well. 

He was in disbelief until Liam drove them to a tall building on the other side of the city, claiming they were late. Late for what, Louis wanted to ask. Getting some? Orgasms? The correct place for feng shui? Something that the Kamasutra endorsed?

The lift ride was nerve-racking for Louis while the couple he was third-wheeling with for was whisper-screaming in exuberance. Before they entered, they had to sign something, leave their phones and keys in a basket, were given a set of rules about consent, protection, cleanliness and energy requirements, and even a shelf by the supposed end of the flat to keep their clothes in. As Liam and Avery skipped in, he trailed behind them reluctantly. 

It's a dimly lit studio flat, long instead of boxed. The ceiling was high and the curtains took away the view of the city and the skyline. There was not much furniture, just a refrigerator that stood lonesome in a kitchenette. But, that wasn't what Louis noticed at first.

Bodies. They were everywhere. On the floor, against the wall, several on an armchair. One over the other, a few isolated- it looked like hundreds on laid out white sheets and pillows which flash and go with movements, but it couldn't be more than forty people. For a moment, Louis was frozen in his steps, reminiscent of the worms he used to dig out of the dirt as a child. From the way they were twisting and climbing, it was acrobatic. Seeing so many sweaty backs, tits and arses were making him light-headed. As soon as the door opened, the smell of sex overpowered the atmosphere- only it had mixed in various forms and became a tang of its own. The sounds emanating from them were starting to sound collectively like an angry mob; moan over moan and grunt over grunt. Over it, a playlist of The Weeknd's songs tinnily played from somewhere. 

Soon enough, Louis gathers his senses as someone joining in from behind him nudges him on. Everyone passes him mere glances while he finds himself a place to sit, it feels as though ants are crawling over him. 

For the next half an hour, Louis finds himself feeling out of place, not wanting to look up at all the people, and also being compelled to do it. He takes a break between staring around with cold sweat and being in his head. A very naked woman comes by to ask if she can blow him, and although he's frazzled, he manages to politely decline. The offers continue; two men, another woman, another man, a group of three men and two women. Eventually, he's left alone and it's when he notices that the ones that were sitting and watching in the room much like himself, have crawled in and joined the sex.

He's about to up and leave when someone fully clothed stumbles into the space beside him and hobbles onto their knees. When Louis peers at him, past a curtain of dark curly hair, he sees a young man's face. A very, very young man's face. 

"Hello there," he chirps before Louis can say anything.

"Hi?"

"How are we doing tonight?"

"Just peachy," replies Louis, dryly. "Very peachy, actually. If you know what I mean," He gestures to the bodies and hopes this man will get his references.

The man-boy smirks at him and then pulls out a blanket from his rucksack. "It's always nice to bring your own," he explains to Louis as if he can hear the question, as he lays it down adjacent to the wall and settles on one end, patting the other. "More hygienic. You can join me if you like it."

"Right," with that, Louis complies by shuffling onto the blanket. "You've come here to watch, mate?"

"Something like that," answers the man. "You? Going to up and at 'em?"

Louis doesn't mean to scrunch his nose, but he can't stop it from happening in time. "No. I'll just be here."

"Just watching?"

He can't possibly explain the complexity of himself to this man he doesn't even know. "I dunno, I've zoned out the whole time I've been here. Whatever that's supposed to say about me. But, if you want to go, don't let me stop you."

The man grins, shaking his head. "All good, mate. I quite like it here, don't mind my company." Then he reaches into his rucksack again, and Louis is scared he might pull out a sex toy and start to get himself off with Louis beside him- but. What comes out it is a pad of paper. Following them is a set of charcoal pencils and a thoroughly used rubber.

"Fuck me," gasps Louis. "I thought you were going to pull out a dildo or summat and I was gonna make a run for it!"

He gives Louis a long look as though he's calculating who he is, and piecing him together. It's when Louis realises he might have sounded a tiny bit homophobic. "You have nothing to worry about…"

"Louis," he says, angling himself to face each other properly, holding out a hand to shake. He wasn't sure if they were allowed to take names, but he didn't mind the rule-breaking for once. "You are?"

"' Antyllus," then he gives Louis a once over as he lets go of his hand upon shaking it. "You can call me Harry, though."

Narrowing his eyes, Louis stares at Antyll- Harry. "Antyllus?"

Harry hums in reply, as though he's had this conversation multiple times with multiple people for it be the norm for him. "It's a title. But I'd prefer it if you'd call me by my name." Somehow that feels like a privilege. He begins to flip open the pad to a plain page, fast enough that a glimpse of the previous ones cannot be seen. 

"You've come to an orgy to draw?"

"And you've come to an orgy to zone out?"

Louis stays quiet.

Harry looks proud of himself though like speechlessness is a reward that speaks for itself, as punny as it is. "This, um, isn't my scene. I've just come to do my erotic art."

"Your what?!"

Harry wordlessly flips to the previous page, tilting the book to show Louis one of his drawings. The main focus of the art was the penis from its point of view- thick, venous, perfect, almost characteristic- with a hand wrapped around it. As three-dimensionally as possible, Harry had drawn the torso of a woman, the jut of her collarbones and the curve of her breasts right under; the shading appearing as if the man was supposedly hovering over her. There were drops of semen dotting below her neck, between her breasts, dripping in places. There were no heads or full bodies to say the image belonged to someone.

"This is…"

"It's called a 'pearl necklace'," Harry supplies.

"No, this is great," Louis says breathlessly. "Are you an art student?"

"Yep. In the first year right now," he doesn't divulge any other details about where it is.

"Looks so realistic. Wow, mate. Consider me impressed."

"Thank you," he then gets to work to outline the foursome before them, who had finished up their oral sex and moved on to trying to circle-fuck, realising it's futile, then immediately changing their minds to whatever accommodates the space and their ability. Once they realise Harry is drawing them, the men start flexing and the women lay further out. 

As opposed to before, Louis finds watching Harry sketching to be very soothing. Mandalas can screw themselves before this. How Harry's fingers move across the sheet with rough strokes, his fingers tinged with black and his rubber rolling away from him. How he corrects his mistake before he erases it. How he stares diplomatically at the sex that's happening and mechanically drops it down on to the picture.

In less than an hour, Harry sets down his pencils and stretches his back. "Let's get a drink?"

Louis manages to snap out of his entrancement at once. "Sorry, what?"

"You, me, kitchen, drink," says Harry, jumping up and offering him a hand. 

Just as Louis is taking his hand, he notices Harry's erection from where he's sitting, drops his head while he flushes and stands up. They toe over the uncovered ground, walking around groups and Harry almost stumbles into a woman who's passionately nailing a man with a strap-on but he definitely falls over another standing man fucking a woman's throat. It makes Louis ponder over the situation. How he's found himself in the middle of an orgy with nothing to do, an eccentric boy in company who came to draw rather than to participate in the orgy itself. A boy with a self-proclaimed title by the look of it.

Despite that, they get to the kitchenette in one piece and reach the refrigerator. "So, Louis, what do you do?"

"Studying. I'm up at Greenwich."

Harry whistles lowly. "Looks like we aren't too far from each other. I go to Camberwell."  
Louis nods. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he could see Harry elsewhere and not in a tiny kitchen where he has to fight to keep his gaze on the latter's face instead of the women who are doing it against the microwave behind them. Just to be safe, he stumbles back against the table of fruit, cheese and crackers. 

Harry opens the fridge. "What kind of juice do you want? There isn't anything else."

Earlier it had itched Louis about the kind of drinks available, if there had been alcohol or not. Perhaps he had been too worried about individuals blurring the rules of consent before they pursued others, but that part of him was now at peace. "Is there orange?"

"Yes, there is, Mister Mundane."

Louis cracks a smile and watches him pour it out into paper cups. "If this isn't your thing, why are you here?" He dares to ask. 

"Could ask you the same."

"I asked first."

Harry passes him a look as if he's insufferable. "My friend, Niall. He's one of the hosts of this event. He's been begging me to come for ages for the fun of it, but this time I had a reason to not decline. He must be around here somewhere." He cranes his neck past the kitchen and nods at something. "There he is, the blond sixty-nine-ing with that girl from his biology class. Ironic, isn't it." His smile is brief before he turns back to Louis. "And I'm ace. Should've mentioned that first."

At the admittance of it, Louis feels a thrum of a pleasant buzz go through him. He's never met someone so open about it, or so unashamed about it. He wishes he could be like that. But something piques at him and he's blurting it before he can process it. "But, you're…"

Instantly, Harry's eyes grow steely. "I'm?"

"Y-You're hard?"

Then, Harry drops his tough act and glances down at himself. He looks back up and laughs uproariously. "Oh, Louis," he hiccups out, wiping at the corners of his eyes. "You have so much to learn. You know asexuality is a spectrum?"

Louis nods his head. "Yeah, asexual, aromantic, grey-romantic, aceflux and everything, amirite?" He lists them out, leaving out one of them on purpose. 

Harry tilts his head at him, perusing his face. "You do know your facts," he states. "There's something called being autocrisosexual, where a person might be attracted to a scenario and the people in it, but won't insert themselves in the said scenario or won't want to act on it."

"That's so," Louis cuts across himself for a lack of good word. "I've never heard of that, sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that. But, that's very interesting."

A hand reaches out and squeezes his forearm. When he glances up, Harry is biting down on his smile. "It's okay. Relax, I'm not going to pluck your tongue out for asking questions."

Louis shakes his head, his ears growing hot. "I'm made a complete fool out of myself. First, I've given you the impression that I might be a prude and now this." He set his glass aside and scrubs his face, muffling his embarrassed laugh. "I've gone and botched this up, haven't I?"

From Harry's lazy simpering, it's clear he's enjoying how much disquietude Louis is putting himself through. He leans against the table and crosses one foot over the other. "I don't know what this is, but you haven't botched it up."

Momentarily, Louis is stuck staring at this boy before him- tracing his features with his eyes and not wanting to stop. He wished there was an artist inside him that would capture Harry in the way he deserved; in the way, Harry might have been doing others. He wonders if maybe Harry will awaken a new brand artist in him if thoughts were an art. If they could run away from him and become real.

He just about forgets they're standing and talking to each other in the middle of an orgy.

"If it's anything to go by," Louis says lowly. "I'm demi, and this place has made me so nervous, I've turned into a mess."

Harry's lips curl again, less resistant than when they sitting on the floor. "Look at that, we have more and more in common. We live near each other, our friends dragged us here and we're in the same club, sexuality wise. One might assume it's destiny. But, any man in his right mind wouldn't take a chance on assuming something like that. If they do, they're what we call 'idiots', aren't they?"

"How did you know I was dragged here by my friend?"

"It's obvious, Lou."

A man in the nude walks up to them. "Mate, you're blocking the table. Pass me a condom and a dental dam, will you?"

While both of them move out of the way at the same time, Harry gestures to the table. "Sorry, mate. Have at it," he gives him a once-over. "Holy shit, you're huge!"

The man smiles, looking proud as a peacock. Or rather, he was proud below the navel. It would make a stellar joke. "Thanks," he fixes Harry with a look. "Do you want to join us? Em's into DP." Then, peers at Louis. "Both of you could join us. We can figure something out."

Harry swiftly joins Louis's side and his hand snakes out to wrap around one of Louis's wrists. "Sorry. I don't share," he tells the man.

Louis turns his head to goggles at the side of his head.

"Cheers, mate. Have fun," then the man leaves as quickly as he's come.

It's starting to become transparent, just how barefaced it is that Louis is remotely inclined into this human being across him. Harry was so objectively pretty that all Louis could do was blink at him. He had glittery eyes and hands that moved for themselves and a perfect face and an even more perfect jaw. God, if Louis could, he would spoon the shit out of this boy and feed him cereal in bed and carry him to the loo to draw him a bath. He hadn't even known him for too long; knowing nothing but the fact that this boy was quirky in a way that only future could tell was good or bad. But, there was no other option to know but to try. 

"You haven't let go of my wrist," Louis eventually points out. 

Harry doesn't even hesitate. "I know."

Louis gawks at him. 

"It's a nice wrist," he gives Louis a once-over too. "So 's the rest of you. Might have to draw you at some point."

Louis feels something flip in his stomach. "Erm, thank you."

"I like your face a lot, too."

"I was going to say the same."

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

Then, Harry simply stares at him like he's trying to match the jigsaw pieces of Louis in the air to the space of his face and assemble an impression of him. "Give me a minute," he quips, running out of the kitchenette. Louis can't see anything past the kitchen platform that's joined to the ceiling but he can hear the countless apologies Harry throws out to the people he must be walking into.

He feels himself grinning by the time Harry makes it back to him, surprisingly not bruised up. "What are you smiling at?"

Louis purses his lips and shakes his head. "Where'd you go off to?"

Then, Harry hands him a slip of paper. "This is confidential. Can't have the masses knowing," he whispers. 

When Louis unfolds it, a series of digits stare back at him; jarring black in a charcoal pencil. It's a phone number. It's Harry's phone number. Bloody hell, he got Harry's number without even trying. "This is just for me?"

Harry nods once, but with surety. "Only you. Keep it safe in your pocket. Don't leave your clothes lying around for someone to find it."

"I won't," Louis promises, beaming because he can no longer suppress it. 

The familiar hand now wraps around a few of Louis's fingers, but his wrist tingles in nostalgia. "It's for emergencies," he murmurs. "In case you're stuck at another orgy or you found a new meme or you have good and bad days. Or in-between days."

"Or if I want you to draw me like one of your french girls," Louis tacks on.

At once, Harry is taken aback, face going serious and then breaking with a laugh that bubbles over the noise of anonymous sex- louder than planets crashing. "You might be the french girl, Louis. The only french girl. I look forward to it." He glances at his wristwatch and sighs. "I must leave."

Even though the slip of paper was burning in Louis's pocket, like a well-tended fire to a torch at any moment, Louis frowns. "Already?"

"Unfortunately. The night is young, but I am a very, very old soul," he says wisely. "Goodbye, Louis. Make use of my contact information, please." Before Louis can even comprehend what he means, he slips past the kitchenette and out of his line of sight, crosses the people for his things, and then out of the room by the time Louis recollects his entire evening. Damn, he shouldn't have spaced out and ran after Harry like in the films. But, he has a feeling Harry wouldn't be too pleased.

He's always liked the weird ones.

Louis notices their untouched cups sitting on the station. He grabs Harry's cup, realises it's orange juice and drinks it all in one go. 

***

The fateful phone call comes one day.

One day; someday. Louis doesn't know because he's been living life on a hamster wheel with his eyes only half open and also since he's on the brink of falling asleep somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. That's right when his phone begins ringing.

Louis's forehead is creased before he can fathom how it makes him feel. He snatches it off his night-stand and narrows his eyes to identify the criminal who's head he's yet to blow out. Harry, it reads. Just to be sure, Louis blinks. And. It still says the same.

He lifts the call and presses the phone to the ear that isn't against the pillow. "Erm, 'llo?" He smacks his lips together and nearly catches the pillow in his mouth- it only spurs him onto settle on his stomach and buries his face in the sheets that still smelled of fabric conditioner.

"Louis," it's the unmistakable sound of Harry's voice, enamelled with static and aplomb. "Are you busy tomorrow?"

"What? Harry, it's bloody midnight right now," he groans.

"Answer the question."

He does mean to answer but he forgets and he doesn't know it until Harry is calling him again, jerking him out of a semi-slumber. "Louis…Lou…Louis! Are. You. Busy tomorrow?"

"I'm not," sobs Louis.

"Good. Do you think you can come to my flat in the morning? I'll draw you and then maybe do lunch."

"Yes. Can I sleep now?"

Harry makes a protesting noise. "You're not being serious."

"I'm so serious, Harold. Is offering up my firstborn if I don't, serious enough?"

"That's serious."

Louis sighs, eyelids caving as he sits up on his stomach, elbows digging into his headrest. "I might be French-girling for you, but contrary to popular belief, I am speaking in English."

Harry hums, contemplating it. "I'll pick you up from your dorms at ten tomorrow?"

"I can take a bus, Harry."

"Nonsense, I'm the one who's asking. Is ten, okay?"

In the back and forth, Louis is nearly wide awake, his consciousness being slowly auscultating that he's going to Harry for the first time outside the first place they met, outside the allusion of sweaty bodies and anticlimactic situations. Despite them being glued to each other's Whatsapp for the past couple of weeks and Facetiming a few drunken times about absolutely every topic under the shameless moon, Louis was suddenly nervous of what it could mean. If spending actual physical time would cause a shift or if Louis laying himself bare for Harry to document will change them- change him.

"Okay," he breathes out eventually. 

"Wonderful. I shall see you tomorrow, Louis. Farewell."

Louis throws his phone on the pillow beside his and doesn't fall asleep for a while.

***

  
In the few minutes that Louis is standing at the end of the street, the anxiety in him turns into a trait, and then quickly into a whole personality with its own thoughts and beliefs and it seems to want to project onto to Louis. What would he say to Harry's stupidly handsome face? What if he ends up sounding unintelligent? What if he says something odd and Harry will drop him off in the middle of the road and be on his way? What if he's a-

The spiral is sliced through as a beige coloured car rolls to a stop in front of him. 

Louis had expected a cab or a Vespa at best when Harry had mentioned picking him up. Not a bloody car. Not this particular car. He plays with the strap of his messenger bag as he lets his gaze run over the bonnet and the lining of the car, suppressing a shiver.

Harry pops his head out of the window, clearly craning over the console. "Hiya," he greets with a grin.

"I'm not getting in that car," Louis blurts immediately.

"Why not?"

"This is yours?" Louis asks him incredulously.

At that, Harry beams proudly. "Yep, she's mine. Got her for a great deal. Second-hand but she was in top condition."

Perhaps it hadn't occurred to Harry why it was sold to him in prime condition, why it didn't hit him that whoever sold it to him, was trying to get rid of it. 

"I'm not getting into your Ted Bundy car!"

Harry's smile drips into confusion. "My what?"

"How could you possibly think of owning a beige Beetle without thinking of the implications?!"

"The implications of what?"

"Of it being a murderous car!"

"I don't understand…"

Louis rolls his eyes and steps forward, off the pavement. He had to educate Harry about this, and clearly, this was an innocent car with false allegations on it. He tentatively opens the door and slides in. It smells like jasmine air freshener inside. He couldn't help but notice that there was a Trolls doll hanging from the rearview mirror. There were pink coloured car beads pressing into his back as he got comfortable. The irony of it.

Harry passes him a funny look and set to begin driving again.

"Has no one told you that the famous serial killer, Ted Bundy used to drive this same car around, looking for long-haired brunettes to kill? That they stopped selling these for a bit after that?"

As Harry leads the car into the main street, he's turning white as a sheet. "No?"

Louis nods solemnly and turns his head to look out the window. "You're a quirky one, I thought you did."

"I'm not the one who knows extensively about serial killers, do I?" Harry mutters, the end of the sentence flipping the shape of his mouth into a half-smile.

"I'm not the one who calls himself Antyllus!"

"I'm not the one who went to an orgy and didn't participate!"

Louis gives him a strange look. "Harry, you were at that orgy, and you didn't participate either."

"Fair point," he concedes, scrunching his eyebrows adorably. "Might have been the best one I've been to though. Had so much fun."

"So did I," Louis agrees quietly, stifling a change of sappy expression on his face.

Not even twenty minutes later, they arrive at Camberwell. It's quite different from where Louis resides- all artsy in a whole other way, with its high streets and posh fried chicken stands. The street leads into residencies that are simply charming and red-bricked. Instead of heading to the dorms, Harry drives them to a long building. Louis whistled lowly as they step out, but doesn't ask how Harry could possibly afford a flat in bloody Camberwell where everyone knows to spend more money on weed than the accommodation.

There's no stair climbing involved and it relieves Louis too much for it to be normal- probably because he doesn't want Harry to hear him sounding like a dying accordion since he's done zero cardio throughout his entire life. He'd learnt to walk late in age and then learnt that running was a motor skill much later than that. Forwent all his fitness tests in school horribly. He couldn't be trusted to put out a fire, or that's what his mum always said. 

Harry twirls his keys from the main door's to his flat's in a second, gesturing to his paint-barren door whose numbers have fallen off except for a fatefully askew '2'. "I have to warn you, it's a mess," he twists the key in and jerks the door simultaneously with a shoulder and both his hands. "But, you'll be comfortable in no time."

It's not as fancy as Louis envisioned it to be. There's a discrete shoe rack and a coat hanger right as they enter and turns right into a hallway and into a large room of the lounge and the tiny dining area. As the walls extend, the hidden sofa comes into view and Harry gestures to it and then remembers to take his coat and then take his own off. 

While Harry is gone, Louis looks around with interest; various picture frames of Harry's family that he tries not to gawk at, a large collection of Disney/Pixar film CDs under the telly in a glass cupboard, a large abstract painting that looks very much like an inside of a mouth on the opposite wall. It doesn't take an idiot to understand the pasty white to be teeth and a prominent uvula. He can only assume it's a thing of Harry's. 

Best of all, there's a narrow balcony that makes him instantly jealous even though it's barely six feet long and just wide enough for a person and a half. However, Harry has filled a side of it with flower plants- one particularly bright red hibiscus staring straight through Louis. 

Harry comes back, smiling. "What will you have? Tea? Water? Coffee? I don't have orange juice. I do have orange vodka, though. If you want, I can turn a blind eye to the clock and pretend it's normal to drink in the first half of the day."

Louis can only laugh as he settles down on the sofa. "Tea, please. No milk, honey if you have some."

"Sure," Harry moves to the kitchen where it's situated right in front of the lounge. Strangely, it's separated by a wall, all but a small window that allows a glance into it. It reminds Louis of the restaurant platforms where the chefs slam their dishes on for the waiters to carry them away.

Harry seems to have already made arrangements for his arrival. The sofa is crumb-free and, a throw placed rather tastefully on it. The tea table is cleared out, judged by the five and counting cup stains on; seemed like there was always an emptied cup sitting on it- they must not know what coasters are. There was a chair right across him as if Harry had put it there for him to get an idea of Louis's physique from a few feet away. 

Though he'd been anticipating this for weeks, Louis had forgotten he, in fact, was going to French-girl for one quirky Harry Styles. And that French-girling meant he was meant to go starkers. Much like a Greek god, ironically.

"Here we are," Harry announces as he manoeuvres over to him and clinks two cups (and their saucers?) on the tabletop. "Have you had brekkie? I can make you an egg on a toast if you want."

Louis shakes his head. "Sundays are Full English special at ours. But toast reminds me," he reaches into his messenger bag. "Liam makes this vanilla cashew butter that sounds very pretentious but you could eat it by the spoonful." He tries not to slam the mason jar on the table, it still makes a deafening thud.

Harry smiles lopsidedly. "That's very nice."

A finger thrust in the air, Louis goes back to rummaging through his bag. "I also got something I think you'll like," he passes over a smaller mason jar to Harry. "'S something basic. Dunno just thought of you and did it."

Harry tilts the jar and narrows his eyes at the contents. "You got me… a discoloured egg?"

"Oh, Harold, not just any egg," Louis reveals. "Take it out."

Even though Harry looks dubious his hands don't hesitate to unscrew the lid and reach into the cold, sour-smelling liquid. He scrunches up his face when his fingers come in contact with the surface of the egg, he pulls it out with two dainty fingers and Louis takes it from him wordlessly. 

When Louis throws it on the ground, Harry's face shatters into one that is of horror and bounces back with surprise as does the egg.

"What?" Harry stares at the egg that Louis caught back in his palm. "Did you just-"

"It's a primary school experiment," Louis says, dribbling it once more. "I'm surprised you don't know."

Harry snatches it out of hand and examines it. "What have you done for it to become this?"

"Put it in vinegar. The calcium carbonate in the shell reacts with the acetic acid in the vinegar and forms carbonic acid and calcium acetate. Water has equal H+ and OH- ions, but vinegar; it has more H+ ions, and that's why when both the calcium and the acid are exposed to each other, they have a reaction with products-

Louis stops at once, looking up from his lap. "Shit, I-"

Harry's smiling, though, unperturbed as he nods. "Do go on. I don't understand, but I am living for the passion. You mentioned Greenwich. Degree in chemistry?"

Feeling his cheeks burn, Louis nods meekly. "Sorry."

"No, no. Please continue, I insist," Harry demands sincerely.

Louis wets his lips nervously. "Erm. Right. So, the erm, calcium. Then, the carbonic acid breaks down into the carbon dioxide and water," he glances over at Harry, who's studying thoroughly. It makes him squirm. "That's why there's…"

"There's?" Harry presses.

"Bubbles," he whispers. "There are bubbles in the vinegar."

"Bubbles," Harry agrees, sparing a glance at the abandoned jar, snapping his gaze back just as quick. He rolls the egg in the palm of his hand. "Doesn't explain it entirely though."

"Yeah, well, the fats and proteins in the egg have a part too. Since the shell is dissolved, the albumin is denatured by the acetic acid," he sees that Harry is proper listening and not mocking him, and grows just a little confident. "It's very complicated. Amino acids are made of tertiary and quaternary chains and the acid converts them into primary chains because salt bridges are formed, which is usually what happens when an acid and base react." He pauses for approval. "The positive and negative ions of each other get exchanged and it becomes solid. And rubbery. It's why the outside looks like that."

There's a silence that follows that has Louis want to punch himself for opening his mouth. 

"Please make me more of these, and make me anything else," Harry says with a long sigh. "And please explain it exactly like that. It's hot."

Louis scrubs his face to hide his blush, but he knows it's to no avail. "Can we talk about something else?"

Harry looks amused as he begins to spike the egg onto the floor and catch it, over and over again. "It's fascinating, Louis. Give yourself more credit." 

He groans, shifting in his seat. "I did not come here for you to flatter me."

"Or rather, I did," shoots back Harry. "I intend to draw you, which is the most flattering of things you can ask of someone. When do you want to start?"

Right. The reason for today is getting naked, lying on the sofa and let himself be immortalised. Maybe 84 years later, he can laugh about it. Or cry about it to his granddaughter on a ship.

Louis stands up. "Maybe I can use your loo? And then?"

Harry points to one of the doors. "If you find any pants lying around, they're definitely Niall's. Just saying."

The bathroom is pants-free, coming with an abundance of plush rugs, dirty and covering the totality of the floor. They have a bloody bathtub, and Louis feels privileged to just look at it. He doesn't mean to snoop but he sees a long shelf along the wall; an array of floral and fruity products versus a 3-in-1 gel on the other end. One explains why Harry constantly smells like a farmer's market, and the other inevitably his roommate. 

It's a few minutes of staring at himself in the mirror under the yellow light that Louis realises he's aberrating from the purpose he'd stepped in. The answer is in the dressing gown that's neatly folded and left beside the washbasin. For him. 

Certainly, Louis wants to spend more time thinking about how the contours of his body might look like to another person outside himself. There are hard parts of him and there are soft parts and there are some that are in the middle. But in the end, he knows bodies are bodies, and they're weird and perfect and different. Quickly stripping, he contemplates it and leaves his briefs on and shrugs on the dressing gown- goosebumps erupting as the silk slides over his skin. 

Past the ajar door of the bathroom, he can see Harry has cleared the table and brought out his sketchpad and mat of shading pencils. He's poised on the chair, bent over, facing the sofa. The sofa that Louis has to lie on and have all attention on. 

Taking a deep breath in, Louis steps out quietly and pads back into the lounge. "So how are we going to do this?"

Harry takes his attention off his phone to look at him with a readied smile, but he freezes on spotting him. "Louis," he starts, tone drenched in shock. "Why are you wearing my dressing gown?"

"It was on the platform."

Goggling, Harry creases his eyebrows, mouth moving like he doesn't what to say, or like he doesn't know if the words he wants to say can find a way out. "I'm sorry?"

Louis frowns. "I'll be taking it off now anyway."

"Are you not wearing anything underneath?!"

"Erm. No?"

Harry slowly sets his phone on the table, standing up slower than that. "Louis, why are you not wearing clothes?"

"What do you mean? Aren't you drawing me?"

"I am. But, with your clothes on?"

Louis gawks at him. The blush from earlier is nothing before the one that begins to rise from the centre of his chest and creeps up his neck. "You're telling me you wanted to draw me with my clothes on?"

Harry is grimacing with his teeth out. "Yeah."

"We talked illegal amounts about French-girling, Harry," he panics, voice going high. The embarrassment comes strong along with the adrenaline. "What was I supposed to think?"

At once, Harry looks guilty even if Louis is the one who made a fool out of himself by asking for it. "I'm so sorry. I thought it was a joke."

It was a joke. And Louis took it so seriously, he's the one who became the joke. 

"Excuse me," he gets out, words running while he runs back into the loo. The door pushes shuts, rattles too hard against the frame. He leans his forehead against it and exhales sharply. Tears of shame sting his eyes at once, making him choke on nothing. Being stupid has always gotten him into trouble, and it wasn't showing him any less now. He was way past the stage of making excuses and getting away with being adorable about it. Maybe it'd stopped after he hit puberty and he began looking manlier. None of that mattered now. 

As if suddenly feeling it burn into his skin, Louis rips the robe off himself, nearly bashing his head on the porcelain of this washbasin. He glances down at the soft material accusingly and then drops the act. It wasn't the robe's fault. Then, with a sigh, he hangs it up gingerly beside a semi-wet towel. He pulls on his clothes quickly, unable to look at himself in the mirror and stands across the door in the anxiety of what was supposed to happen. 

He had to get out of there somehow; with the objective of not being seen by Harry. Or never see Harry again. But, it was Harry's house, and he couldn't very well kick the man out of his own house because of his embarrassment. Or he probably could. What's another to the list?

He flips his head around to look for a window. Harry lived on the ground floor and that didn't mean he had to fall down the pipe trying to get down- he's never been good at climbing trees; latching around the trunk with his legs and trying to shuffle up like a sloth. But the only window by the bathtub looked too small for even his shoulders to get through. More for ventilation than escaping, it would seem. He's stuck between paranoid thoughts of wanting to be a cat so his head could fit through and then subsequently his body, and also wondering what bystanders would think of his visage jutting out of a pseudo-window from the side of a random building. 

Maybe he can get Liam to do something like break-in? It was his fault anyway, if it weren't for him, Harry and he would've never met and-

"Louis, c'mon open up!" Urgent knocking follows.

Louis remains mum, mouth dry and heart in his throat. 

"I understand you want to stay in there, but there's only one bathroom in this flat and my bladder is going to burst!"

After a moment of thinking it through, Louis gives in unlocks the door, darting behind it so they can't see each other yet.

Harry slips in through the crack and clicks it shut so fast that Louis doesn't have time to formulate how to slither out. 

"What are you doing?"

Harry's mouth is set in a thin line, perusing Louis. "I lied. Obviously."

Louis can feel an uncomfortable blush blot into his cheeks, along with the inability to breath. "I'm sorry, Harry, I dunno what I was thinking-"

"I have four nipples."

What?

Snapping his mouth shut, goggling and then opening it again, Louis doesn't know what to quite say until he does. "What?"

"I don't tell anyone, because it's not something you bring up in conversation," Harry explains, shrugging. "'Cause, it's like, embarrassing. It somehow got out when I was younger and my nickname through primary school was 'Cow'."

"No…"

Harry nods. "It was. It might seem funny, but…"

"It's not," Louis cuts across, fiercely. "For a kid, it would feel like the end of the world."

"Exactly," Harry shrugs again, bashfully. "And now you have collateral. Not that you need any. It was my fault," he shakes his head, chuckling to himself, head hung. "And you were so brave, you didn't question anything. You were ready to let me draw you like that. I reckon that takes guts. I- " he gulps, glancing up, meeting Louis's eyes. "I really admire that."

Louis is startled into the other perspective. And, then…

It suddenly doesn't feel so bad. 

This was Harry. The person he'd drunk dialled and shared secrets with and spent playing online scrabble with for weeks. 

"Thanks for making me feel better," Louis says sheepishly.

Harry shakes his head harder, hair swinging. "I'm not. Trust me, I'm making a fool out myself."

Those words. They feel like deja vu. 

"What? I'm the one who-"

"You haven't. You've been so cool," says Harry.

"You're joking," Louis gasps. "You're the coolest person I know! I thought you'd find me boring."

"No. No! You're the most interesting thing for miles. I have fun with you, even if we haven't spent time in person much. I have fun texting you, and listening to what you think about the things I think about. I have fun- I have fun just thinking of you."

Louis raises an eyebrow.

Harry lets out a nervous laugh. "That would make a great euphemism if we weren't who we are." Then, he sighs. "But, I do. I think about you a lot. I just don't get as far as telling you it."

Right. 

Flattered is the first thing that Louis feels, followed by warmth and the inevitable happiness that he wasn't the only one. "You just have. Told me, that is."

Harry groans, slumping his shoulders. "In the loo, of all places. I had an elaborate plan. I was going to ask you to have Ramen with me today."

Louis looks at his quizzically. 

"Not just because I'm broke, because, like," he shrugs. "It's supposed to be a Korean pick-up line."

Louis gapes at him. 

This boy- this man. He's going to have fun unravelling him. In the best way. Maybe not as a mystery, but as someone can peel the layers away to keep close to him. But he sees it now. Harry wasn't as chill as he'd originally come off as, and it was honestly alleviating. All this time, Louis felt like he was reaching too far, but they'd probably both been doing the same. Their positions have been reversed. Now, it was just his time to step up and reassure Harry, like he did when they first met.

"I think I like that we talked about this in the bathroom of all places. Korean pick-up lines?" Louis scoffs. "You can use those any time."

Harry lets out a relieved laugh. 

"So are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Going to make me Ramen?"

He expects Harry's blush to ease up, but it only darkens alarmingly and a strange thought of wanting to find a fire extinguisher crosses Louis's mind. It only gets worse when he presses his fingers to Harry's wrist, and a knowing look is returned to him- and he knows Harry hasn't forgotten. 

It's easy after that- no description needed for his mind. No calculations to lay out and find where it will lead, no contemplating it more than it's been through the mill already. It's there, and Louis reaches out and pockets it.

They leave the loo and have Ramen on the sofa, watching episodes of _Young Sheldon_.

Somewhere in the middle, Harry stops being a chapter and becomes a character in his book.

***  
***

  
It's a crisp, dry Sunday morning that Louis finds his way back to Harry after merely going two days without seeing him. He takes a bus and then walks to his boyfriend's flat while the sun is out and smiling down at him. He's careful not to swing the tote bag by his side as he crosses the street and gets to Harry's place in one piece, but not without making one or two cars second-guess his road crossing skills.

The doorman sees him and goes back to his newspaper with a disinterested face, but Louis couldn't care less, either.

He uses the spare key he has; knowing Harry wouldn't mind. It would give a perfect surprise. He could probably see Harry in his habitat of being barely awake, mumbling and rubbing his eyes with sleep lines on his face. From the number of times Louis has gone to his in the morning, he knows how Harry is in the morning; how he cocoons on the couch, lamenting about leaving his bed.

Louis steps past the threshold as quietly as he can, setting his bag down lightly. Leaving his shoes beside the coat hanger, he tiptoes through the narrow passageway. He's already grinning, ready to the sharp right into the lounge and find a bundled Harry in the vertex of the sofa. 

But he stops in his steps when his eyes fall on the sight before him.

It's Harry; on top of a blonde girl, snogging the life out her while she lies along of the length of the three-seater and rakes her manicured nails down his back. His shirt is rucked up, legs bowed around the frame of the girl. His hair is falling over the front of his face- a little too long than Louis remembers.

The deduction, though belated, punches into Louis like a physical blow. It makes him drop his keys onto the wooden floor, tarnishing the silence he'd been maintaining. He wasn't expecting this, and there was something gravely wrong, either with the circumstance or Louis's eyes. He doesn't know what to think when something like this would present. Something out of the realm of possibility.

At the sound, Harry scurries off the girl and looks up at him. There's something different. It might be his nose or his ears or the length of his hair or the space between his brows. Or the way he's looking at Louis. "Can I help you?" And, cor blimey, he sounds different too- voice higher.

Maybe Louis is in shock. There's sweat dripping from his hairline and words wedged in his throat and pain somewhere in his body- probably everywhere.

"Harry…" he says meekly, stuck. Just stuck.

"Oh," Harry says, sitting up. The girl under him squirms to cover herself in protest. "Harry's in the kitchen. You must be Louis."

What?

"I'm Marcel," he cheeps, extending his arm out to shake his hand. 

A lightbulb goes off in Louis's head. This was Harry's brother who he often talked of. But failed to mention he was a twin. Louis looks down at the hand thrust at him in suspicion, not wanting to think where it's been. He pastes on a smile that he's sure isn't convincing. "Nice to meet you," he mutters and dashes to the kitchen.

Through the window in the wall that separates the kitchen from the lounge, he can see Harry's back bent over the sink. Louis roams in and comes to stand beside him.

Harry startles and pulls one of his AirPods out. "Lou," he sings, beaming. His eyes are right and he looks at Louis right. It's a relief. He throws an arm around Louis's neck and hugs him into a them. He pulls back. "Wasn't expecting you. Was thinking of calling you to make plans with you tomorrow-" he cuts himself with a frown. "Babe, you look pale."

Louis purses his lips. "You didn't tell me you had a twin," he mumbles.

"I told you I had a brother."

"You could have specified!" He exclaims incredulously. His ears are red with embarrassment and he doesn't have to look in a mirror to know that. "I walked through the door and thought I was seeing you coppin' off with a girl!"

Harry's frown deepens and he turns towards the lounge, peeking through the window and catching a glimpse of Marcel and his female companion, back to their original state. He palms the platform until he finds what's nearest to him -a head of cauliflower- and hurls it at them. It hits Marcel square in the head, making him fall against the wall.

"Bugger off, Marcie," Harry yells. "That's my bloody sofa and I don't want any of your bloody germs on it. Genie Rae, tell your boyfriend to keep it in his pants, please," he clutches at his forehead before muttering to himself, "Every time he comes over with a conquest I want to bleach that bloody sofa and throw it off my balcony, I swear to god."

"My name's Georgia Rose," the girl says, sitting up.

Apparently, everyone is ignoring her because Marcel clambers off the esteemed sofa and straightens out his shirt. "All I wanted to see was if you were doing well, Harry. I can't believe this- my own brother-"

"Piss off! You just needed a place to have sex because you live with fifteen boys who don't give you space," Harry snaps. "You scared my boyfriend!"

"Well, I wasn't really scared-"

"Harry-" Marcel begins.

"Antyllus," Harry insists.

"Oh, fuck off-"

Then, the twins begin to yell at each other at once, words running into others and jumping with volume as they aim their threats across two ends of the flat. Marcel has his fists clenched by his sides and a vein has popped in his neck, and another on his forehead. Harry is looking for something else to throw at him. It's truly theatrical.

Something interesting is always happening in Harry's flat and it's one of the many reasons Louis loves staying at his- aside from the cuddles and the breakfasts and the weird skincare routines they do together in Harry's crowded bathroom. He looks over at Georgia Rose just in time for her to look back at him, and she looks quite angry.

"Stop!" Georgia Rose shouts. Bunching her hair into a ponytail, she stands up, snatching her purse off the parallel table and stomps towards the door. "Call me when you find a decent place, Marcel. You're a dick." The door slams shut and spreads a heavy silence around them.

Immediately, Harry starts laughing like a switch has been flipped.

In retaliation, Marcel flips him the bird.

"That was a rollercoaster from start to finish," Louis says slowly. "Another entertaining piece happening in the daily soap in the strange land that is your flat. Episode 36: 'I find out Harry has a twin in an unorthodox way'"

Harry laughs at the comment. 

"You've been dating for how long now? Three months? You didn't think to even mention me?" Marcel accuses.

A finger is raised in the air and Harry shakes his head in lieu with it to make a point. "Being a twin has become a personality trait these days, Marcie, you can't expect me to go along with it."

"I can understand. Being related to you would be the worst personality trait anyone could have," laments Marcel. 

Harry opens his mouth to argue back.

But, Louis is quick to wedge himself between them before it becomes a thing once more. "Darling, I brought you a gift."

Immediately, Harry's attention is diverted back to him. "A gift?"

When Louis goes to fetch his bag and is back before them, he can see Marcel pretending to gag at them. "You're not exactly in my good books right now, Marcel. We didn't have a good introduction," he quips as a threat before linking arms with Harry and turning to him. "Let's go into the balcony, love."

A few steps are all it takes and Harry is unavoidably in his tiny, tiny garden. "What is it? What is it? Tell me! Is it like that instant ice with the sodium acetic you showed me last time?"

"Acetate," Louis corrects gently, while he pulls the bag off. "It's much better." He presents a square tray of sensitive plants to Harry; a bed of leaves and pink fuzz flowers. "Mimosa Pudica. They're called-"

"Shameplants!" Harry exclaims with far too much excitement, already reaching out to stroke one and revelling when the leaves hunch in on themselves immediately. "What brought this on?"

Louis shrugs as he balances it on one hand while pushing a pot of a tomato plant to the side to make a place for the new guest. He crouches down and sets it down. "Just felt like it. Getting you a cat felt excessive. And expensive. I know you said you wouldn't be able to take care of a pet. At least this is a plant that responds, eh?"

Harry sits down beside on the floor of the balcony, eyeing the plants, enamoured. "It's so thoughtful, babe." 

"Was going to get a venus flytrap but I couldn't find carnivorous compost."

Swatting at him, Harry looks up. "Don't downplay everything, Lou! This is so wonderful," he finds Louis's wrist and thumbs over his pulse, making it rocket. "You're so wonderful."

Louis begins shaking his head, but he gets held it place when Harry kisses him on the mouth and then buries his face in his neck with a sigh. The warmth of Harry's cheeks is just as grounding as it is levitating. The touch on the inside of Louis's wrist doesn't let up even if their arms bent at uncomfortable angles. With Harry, it's always paradoxes that have no business being nonsensical. With Harry, there's always a corner for them in the entropy.

"Can I make you some tea? It's the least I can do for this and dealing with Marcie."

Louis jerks up, realising that they have company. He glances back into the flat and finds Marcel against the arm of the sofa, phone thrust in their direction with the camera flash on. He's smirking like he's going to use it against them. Louis finds that he doesn't mind, but he can't let his boyfriend's twin brother win over them either.

He turns back to Harry. "Baby, if I murder your brother, you won't hate me, will you?"

Harry has that smile that should officially belong to Louis; eyes cast down on to his face and the corner of his mouth pulled up. "I'll visit you everyday like the jailbait I am. That is if you don't get bail. I'll have to sell my Ted Bundy car but who cares, you know?"

"What's the game plan?"

Harry leans in closer than he already is. "You get his legs and I get his head. We act on our instincts."

"Perfect."

"Alright, on three? One, two-"

Before they get to three, both of them are up and ready themselves to sprint, but stop in their tracks to laugh how pathetically sync they are. Harry's eyes are grey today; matching the sky outside, dimples are carved into his cheeks, mouth ajar mid-laugh. Somehow Louis feels like he can see his favourite part of himself in Harry. In the nanosecond it takes to catch up with each other, an I Love You bubbles from his brain and floats down to his throat. He promptly swallows it was a better time and launches with Harry at the third person in the room. The emotions in him drown out the squawks from Marcel's mouth.

Maybe 84 years later, he'll think about a strange boy he met in a strange party and love the way they immortalised each other; Harry with his pencils and Louis with his wayward, wayward thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Louis is me. I have too much Ted Bundy knowledge for it to be socially acceptable. Sorry!!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated x


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